miserable Mrs. Mortimer, a pang of remorse suddenly shooting through
her heart like a barbed and fiery arrow.
“You should have calculated all the consequences before you came hither
to menace me,” observed Laura, still in a cold and severe tone--a tone
that was unpitying and merciless.
“Can nothing move you?” asked the wretched woman, now completely
subdued and cast down--overwhelmed and spirit-broken.
“Nothing!” responded Laura, sternly. “You may do your worst--I fear you
not; and henceforth I acknowledge you not as my mother!”
Saturated with crimes--steeped in profligacy as the old woman’s soul
was, nevertheless this sudden renunciation of her by her own daughter
went like a death-pang to her heart. She fell back again into the seat
from which she had started a few minutes previously--a deadly pallor
came over her countenance, rendering it hideous and ghastly as if the
finger of the Destroyer were upon her--and her breath came in long and
difficult sobs.
But her daughter stood gazing unmoved on this piteous spectacle,--stood
like an avenging goddess, in her white robes, as if about to immolate
her victim upon an altar!
“Give me a glass of water, Laura--for the love of God, a glass of
water!” gasped the old woman at length, as she extended her arms
piteously towards the relentless being, whose heart, so voluptuously
tender beneath the influence of love, was hard as adamant against the
appeals of her parent.
“Nothing--no, not even a drop of water, nor a crust of bread shall you
receive beneath my roof,” was the unpitying, remorseless answer.
“Then my curse be upon you--my curse be upon your dwelling, and all
whom it contains!” cried the old woman, suddenly recovering her own
energy and firmness--for the last words of her daughter had goaded her
to desperation.
“The curses of fiends turn to blessings,” said Laura, in a calm and
deliberate voice.
“But a mother’s curse is a terrible--terrible thing!” exclaimed Mrs.
Mortimer, fixing her haggard eyes intently upon her daughter, who
returned the gaze with looks of proud disdain and haughty defiance.
The old woman then rose slowly from her seat, and as slowly walked
towards the door; on reaching which she turned round, and said, “Is
there no way of restoring peace between us?”
“None,” was the resolute and laconic answer.
Mrs. Mortimer hesitated yet for a few moments; then, as if suddenly
embracing a desperate resolve, or struck by some terrible idea of
vengeance, she abruptly quitted the room.
Laura listened, with suspended breath, to hear whether there was any
one in the hall for her mother to speak to; but her apprehensions on
this head were speedily relieved, and in a few moments the front door
closed behind the old woman.
The Count of Carignano, who had watched her departure from the
drawing-room window, now hastened to join his lovely wife.
“The interview has been a long one--and, I fear, not altogether
pleasant, dearest,” he exclaimed, as he clasped Laura in his arms.
“My mother wished to exercise over me a despotism to which I cannot
yield,” responded the bride. “But wherefore did you conjecture that our
meeting was disagreeable?”
“Became your countenance is very pale, my love,” answered the Count, in
a voice full of tenderness. “Ah! now it is growing animated--and the
colour of the rose is returning to your lovely cheeks.”
“Yes,” murmured the fascinating woman, as she wound her snowy arms
about her husband’s neck, “it is because your presence has restored
me to happiness, and banished from my mind the unpleasant impressions
excited by my mother’s behaviour. But we shall see her no more--and
naught can now interfere with our perfect felicity.”
“This assurance delights me,” answered the Count, gazing with a joyous
admiration upon the splendid creature who had that morning become his
bride.
CHAPTER CXCV.
HORRORS.
It will be recollected that Mrs. Mortimer was far from being unprovided
with money--her share of the spoil obtained from Torrens still being in
her possession, with the trifling deduction of the few pounds she had
expended in travelling, clothes, and maintenance, during the interval
that had elapsed since the occurrences in Stamford Street.
The bulk of the amount thus remaining to her had been carefully sewn in
her stays, so that it had altogether escaped the notice of Jack Rily:
and thus the old woman was not destitute of resources.
But the sum in her possession was a mere trifle when compared with
that which she had hoped to acquire from the forgery; and she now
resolved to leave no stone unturned--no measure unattempted, however
desperate, in order to accomplish her aim. Besides, she longed--she
craved to wreak a terrific vengeance upon her daughter,--yes--upon her
own daughter: for the remorse and the softer feelings which had ere now
found an avenue into her breast, when Laura renounced her, were only
evanescent and short-lived. We have moreover seen that this temporary
weakness was speedily succeeded by the desperation produced by a
terrible resolve to which her mind came as it were all in a moment!
Impelled by this sinister influence, Mrs. Mortimer lost no time in
repairing to Roupel Street, where she found Jack Rily lolling in a
chair, smoking his pipe and enjoying a quart of half-and-half.
“Well, my old tiger-cat, what news?” he exclaimed, the moment Mrs.
Mortimer made her appearance. “Have you succeeded with your beautiful
daughter?”
“Very far from it,” was the answer. “And now,” she added, ere the
Doctor had time to give vent to the oath which rose to his lips through
the vexation of disappointment,--“and now the matter has come to
that extreme point when nothing but a desperate step can prevent the
presentation of the genuine cheque to-morrow.”
“Are you sure it will not be presented to-day?” demanded Jack Rily.
“Yes; my daughter said that she should present it _to-morrow_,”
responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have every reason to believe that she
will not go near the bank to-day. In fact, she was married this morning
to a young Italian nobleman, whom she loves deeply, and whom she will
not therefore quit, even for an hour, on her wedding-day.”
“Well, and what do you propose?” asked Jack Rily, fixing upon her a
significant look, which shewed that he already more than half divined
what was passing in her bosom.
“Are you man enough to risk all--every thing--for the sake of that
thirty thousand pounds which will become your share if we succeed?”
demanded the old woman, returning the look with one of equally ominous
meaning.
“I am man enough to do any thing for such a sum!” he answered, sinking
his voice to a low whisper, and laying down his pipe--a proof that he
considered the topic of discourse to be growing too serious to permit
any abstraction of the thoughts.
“Then you understand me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, leaning forward, and
surveying him with a penetration which appeared to read the secrets of
his inmost soul.
“Yes--I understand you, my tiger-cat,” replied the man; and he drew his
hand significantly across his throat.
“Well, and will you do it?” she asked.
“But it is your own daughter,” he observed, shuddering at the atrocity
of the woman’s mind which could calmly contemplate such a fearful deed.
“She has renounced me,” was the laconic answer.
“Nevertheless, you are still her mother,” persisted Jack Rily.
“I discard her--for ever!” responded the horrible old woman.
“Well--you astounded me at first,” said the Doctor, in a slow tone, as
he reflected profoundly upon the extreme step suggested: “but I can
look at the business with a more steady eye _now_. I always thought
that I was bad enough: but, by God! you beat anything I ever knew in
the shape of wickedness.”
“Then you refuse--you decline?” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer,
interrogatively, while rage convulsed her entire frame--for she dreaded
lest the money should be lost, and Laura escape her vengeance.
“By Satan!” cried the Doctor; “if you have pluck enough to propose, I
am not the man to refuse to execute the scheme. But how do I know that
when the critical moment comes, remorse won’t seize on you, and you’ll
cry off?”
“When I have made up my mind to anything, I am not to be deterred
by difficulty--danger--or compunction,” answered the old woman. “I
implored the ungrateful girl to give me a glass of water, when I was
choking--and she refused. What mercy can I have towards her?”
“None,” responded Jack Rily. “But you must enter into farther
explanations, old tiger-cat: because at present I’m pretty well in the
dark relative to the precise nature of your plans, and the way in which
they are to be executed. It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon--and we
must settle everything without delay, if it’s to be done _to-night_.”
“It _is_ for to-night,” said the old woman, emphatically. “My daughter
and her husband have taken a house in Pimlico----”
“How many servants?” demanded Jack Rily.
“I cannot exactly answer the question: but I know that there is
a French lady’s maid; and I saw an English valet, who had been
recommended by the house-agent----”
“Never mind who recommended him,” interrupted the Doctor, impatiently;
“he is there--and that’s enough for us. All I care about knowing is how
many people we may have to deal with.”
“But the venture must be made at any risk,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “It
is of the highest consequence to us to gain possession of the genuine
cheque----”
“And put the holder of it out of the way,” added Jack Rily. “Oh! I
understand your drift plainly enough: but I wish to see my course
clear--because I’d better do the best I can with the notes under
existing circumstances, rather than get a bullet through my brain or
find myself laid by the heels in Newgate some time between this and
to-morrow morning.”
“Certainly--certainly,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer. “Well--upon what do you
decide?”
“To risk the business,” answered Jack, starting from his seat. “And now
I’ll just go and take a quiet walk down into Pimlico, for the purpose
of surveying the premises. Whereabouts is it?”
“Westbourne Place, No.----,” replied Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well--you can meet me again down in that neighbourhood at about
midnight,” said the Doctor. “Where shall the place of appointment be?”
“In Sloane Square, if you like,” observed the old woman.
“Good--precisely at midnight. And now be off--because I am going to
hide the Bank-notes so that nobody may be able to find them during
my absence,” said the Doctor, with a meaning look. “Of course I need
hardly tell you that if you are scheming or manœuvring to get me into
a plant down at Pimlico, you’ll never go away alive to make a boast of
it.”
“The idea that I should act in such a way, is ridiculous,” returned
Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well--there is no harm in giving you the caution, old tiger-cat,”
remarked the Doctor, carelessly. “So tramp off--and be punctual to our
appointment.”
“I shall not fail,” said the horrible woman, who thereupon took her
departure.
How she passed the remainder of that day, we know not. Suffice it to
say that the leisure-time which she had for reflection did not induce
her to change her mind nor swerve from her purpose: on the contrary,
as she entered Sloane Square a few minutes before midnight, it was
with a determination to take her share in the awful tragedy which she
contemplated--namely, the murder of her own daughter and the Count of
Carignano. Bad and depraved as she was, never in her life until this
occasion had she thought so calmly and coolly of shedding blood: for
if on the previous day she had harboured the design of assassinating
Jack Rily, in order to regain possession of the Bank-notes, it was
not without a cold shudder, even though there was something like
aggravation to inspire the idea. But now she had brought herself--or
circumstances had tutored her--to survey with a diabolical tranquillity
the hideous, appalling crime which she had in view; and as she walked
along, she clutched with savage triumph a clasp-knife that she had
purchased during the evening.
Precisely as the clock struck twelve Jack Rily joined her.
“Well, you have not altered your mind?” he said.
“It is rather for me to ask you that question,” was her response.
“Oh, I am resolute enough!” he observed; and through the semi-obscurity
of the night she could see his large white teeth flashing hideously
between the opening in his lip. “I have taken a good survey of the
premises,” he continued, “and know exactly how to proceed. Have you got
any weapon, old tiger-cat?”
“This,” she replied, placing the clasp-knife in his hand.
He opened the blade--felt it--closed it again--and, returning the knife
to his companion, said, “That will do. But there is one thing that
troubles me a little,” he added, after a few moments’ hesitation; “and
I’ll be hanged if I can get it off my mind. Yet--perdition seize it!--I
am no coward either.”
“What have you to fear, then?” demanded the old woman, hastily.
“Why, to tell you the truth----but come along farther away from the
lamps----to tell you the truth, as I was jogging quietly down Sloane
Street just now,” continued Rily, glancing furtively around, “some one,
coming hastily up from a narrow street on the right-hand side, passed
just in front of me. We almost ran against each other, and I caught a
glimpse of the fellow’s countenance----”
“Who was he?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, shuddering in anticipation of the
reply.
“Vitriol Bob,” was the answer.
“I thought you were going to say so,” exclaimed the old woman. “But
perhaps he did not notice you--and even if he did, I suppose you are
not afraid that he will attempt any mischief?”
“Whether he noticed me or not, I can’t say,” replied the Doctor;
“because the encounter was so abrupt--so sudden--that he was off again
in an instant. But if he did, I am well aware that he is capable of
anything. However, I don’t mean to let _that_ prey upon my mind, I can
tell you.”
“And yet it _does_ seem to have depressed you a little,” said Mrs.
Mortimer.
“Well--I’d rather it shouldn’t have happened--that’s all!” ejaculated
the ruffian, forcing himself to assume a gaiety which he did not
altogether feel; for, though no coward, yet the incident of his meeting
with his sworn foe in the manner described, had troubled him.
Doubtless the man’s mind, contemplating a diabolical crime, was more
disposed to superstitious terrors, and to acknowledge the influence of
presentiments, than on ordinary occasions: hence the vague uneasiness
and undefined apprehensions that had seized upon him.
Mrs. Mortimer caught the dispiriting effects of the encounter which her
confederate had experienced with one of the most desperate ruffians
in London; and such a chill fell upon her mind, that she was about
to propose the abandonment of the scheme, when Jack Rily suddenly
exclaimed, “Well thought of! I’ve something in my pocket that will do
us good!”
[Illustration]
With these words he produced a flask of brandy, which he handed to the
old woman, who drank deeply: he then applied it to his own lips, and
drained it of its contents.
“Now I feel all right again!” he cried, as he restored the empty bottle
to his pocket. “There’s nothing like a drop of the bingo at a crisis of
this nature.”
“Nothing!” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assentingly: for she likewise felt
all her resolution--or rather hard-heartedness--suddenly revive under
the influence of the alcohol.
“Now, then, let us proceed to business,” said Jack. “I have got my
own clasp-knife--a darkey[28]--and a small jimmey,”[29] he continued;
“and blowed if it shall be my fault, should we fail in the crack[30]
to-night----”
“And all that is to follow,” added Mrs. Mortimer, to whom the brandy
had imparted a ferociousness which made her thirst as it were to drink
her own daughter’s blood.
The two miscreants--male and female--now proceeded in silence; and as
they entered Westbourne Place a lovely moon broke forth from behind a
cloud hitherto dark and menacing.
“This is the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, when they came within sight of
the dwelling where Laura and the Count of Carignano were slumbering in
each other’s arms.
“I know it, old gal,” responded Jack Rily. “We must turn into the lane
that leads down by the side of the premises. Come along--quick--there’s
a person approaching from behind.”
And, followed by the old woman, he darted into the alley which
separated the Count of Carignano’s abode from the neighbouring row of
houses.
At the back of the villa there was a small garden, the boundary-wall
of which was of no great height; and the Doctor, in the survey of the
premises which he took during the evening, had made up his mind to
effect an entry in the rear of the building.
“All is quiet,” he said, in a low whisper to his companion. “I will
climb on to the top of the wall, and then help you up. We will soon
make light work of it.”
But scarcely were these words uttered, when a dark shadow appeared at
the end of the lane--and in another moment Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer
beheld a man hastening towards them.
The old woman instinctively drew close up to her powerful confederate
for protection, in case mischief should be intended; and scarcely was
this movement effected, when the cause of apprehension was close up to
the spot where she and Rily were standing in the deep shade of the wall.
At that instant the moon-beams fell fully upon the man’s countenance;
and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer as she
recognised her terrible enemy--Vitriol Bob! Simultaneously with that
cry, an ejaculation of rage escaped from Jack Rily, who, dashing the
old woman away from him, sprang towards the formidable foe.
But ere the sounds of the cry and the ejaculation had died in the air,
Vitriol Bob, nimbly eluding the attack of the Doctor, raised above his
head _something_ which his right hand grasped; and although the blow
was intended for Jack Rily, it fell with an ominous crash full upon the
countenance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, striving to escape, but bewildered
by terror, was running across the lane, in front of Vitriol Bob, at the
instant.
Then--O heavens! what a shriek of agony--what a yell of indescribable
anguish broke upon the silence of the night--rending the air with its
piercing sound, and raising echoes of even more horrifying wildness
throughout the neighbourhood.
Vitriol Bob fled in one direction--Jack Rily in another; and the old
woman was abandoned, alike by friend and foe, to her wretched fate!
But--see! the lights gleam in the windows of the very villa which
was to have been the scene of a horrible murder: the painful yells,
which still continue to beat the air with their agonising vibrations,
have aroused the Count of Carignano--aroused also the lovely creature
in whose arms he was sleeping. The valet and Rosalie likewise start
from their respective couches; and the young Italian nobleman and the
man-servant, having hastily thrown on some clothing, descend into the
street.
The cries proceed from the lane: they rush to the spot--and there
upon the ground they behold a female writhing like a stricken snake,
evidently in the most horrible tortures.
What can it mean?
They do not wait to ask the question; but, raising the wretched
sufferer from the ground, they bear her into the house--her shrieks and
screams lacerating their ears all the time, and her contortions and
writhings being so powerful that they can scarcely carry her along.
The neighbours have likewise been alarmed; but none have imitated
the example of the generous young Italian, and descended from
their bed-rooms to afford assistance. They look forth from their
windows--satisfy themselves that aid _is_ at hand--and, believing the
uproar to be created by some poor woman in a fit, close the curtains
and hasten back to bed again.
In the meantime the Count of Carignano and his valet have borne the
writhing--yelling sufferer into the hall; and Laura descends the stairs
with a candle in her hand. She has thrown on a dressing-gown, and
thrust her naked feet into slippers; and her magnificent hair floats in
messy modulations and luxuriant waves over her fine shoulders and her
ample bosom.
But scarcely do the rays of the light fall upon the countenance of the
suffering wretch, when the Count of Carignano starts back in horror,
exclaiming, “Merciful God! do my eyes deceive me?--is it possible?
Laura, dearest----”
“’Tis my mother!” cried the young lady, hastening up to the spot where
the old woman lay writhing and screaming fearfully upon the mat.
“Ah! that voice!” said the dying Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly desisting
from the outpourings of ineffable agony, as the musical tones of her
daughter fell upon her ears: “Laura--is it indeed you? Come near--give
me your hand--I cannot see you----My God! I am blind--the fiend--the
wretch----Come near, I say----Oh! I am dying--and this is the beginning
of hell----”
“Mother--mother!” exclaimed Laura, whose heart was touched by
witnessing the appalling pain that writhed the form of the old woman.
“Forgive me, my child--forgive me,” gasped the dying wretch: “I came
to----But all is growing dark in my mind as well as my eyes----forgive
me, I say--forgive me----Oh! God!” she suddenly shrieked
forth,--“this--_this_ that I feel now must be Death!”
As these words fell from the old woman’s tongue amidst gasps of agony,
convulsions seized upon her--and she expired in the most shocking
agonies.
CHAPTER CXCVI.
RESOLUTIONS.
We must now return to Lord William Trevelyan, who, in pursuance of the
promise made to the Marquis of Delmour, proceeded, the moment after
that nobleman had left him, to the villa at Bayswater, which he reached
shortly after mid-day; and he was at once conducted into the presence
of Mrs. Sefton.
This lady was alone in the parlour; and the young nobleman immediately
perceived that she had been weeping--although she endeavoured to
conceal the fact beneath a smiling countenance as she rose to welcome
him.
“My dear friend,” she said, in a voice rendered tremulous by
deep emotions; “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your
generosity--your unparalleled goodness, in adopting such measures to
procure the liberation of Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“You have, then, seen him?” observed Trevelyan.
“He has but this moment left me,” was the slow and mournful response:
and, after a short pause, Mrs. Sefton said, as she sank back into her
chair, “Our interview was at first a most joyous one--but at the end
most melancholy.”
“I cannot understand you,” exclaimed Trevelyan, seating himself near
her.
“Nevertheless, it is not my intention to affect any farther mystery,
with regard to myself or my affairs, towards you,” said Mrs. Sefton,
hastily wiping away the tears that had started to her eyes, and
composing her features with the sudden resolution of one who has
determined upon the particular course which duty suggests. “Your
conduct--the generosity of your disposition--and the attachment which
you experience for my beloved daughter, are all inducements and
reasons wherefore I should at once communicate to you all my plans.”
She again paused for a few moments, and then continued in the following
manner:--
“The dearest hope of my life was accomplished on that day when my
darling Agnes was restored to me: and since we have together occupied
this secluded but delightful spot, I have had leisure to reflect upon
those duties which I owe to my daughter. Moreover, I have well weighed
all the circumstances of her position and my own; and I cannot blind my
eyes to the fact that a great sacrifice must be made on my part to her
reputation--her welfare--her purity of soul.”
“I begin to understand you now, my dear friend,” said Lord William
Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up with the animation of joy:
for he felt assured that he had not formed a wrong estimate of Mrs.
Sefton’s character, when he attributed to her the most amiable
qualifications and excellent principles, in spite of her connexion with
Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
“Oh! could you suspect even for an instant that I should permit my own
selfish passion to triumph over my affection for that dear daughter who
has been so miraculously restored to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “No,
my lord--no, my esteemed friend--I am not a woman of such a despicable
description! Not an hour has elapsed since, in this very room, I said
to Sir Gilbert Heathcote, ‘_We must separate, my well-beloved--and
perhaps for a long, long time--if not for ever!_’ He understood me--he
appreciated my motives; and he scarcely sought to reason against my
resolution--But, oh! this yielding--this assent on his part, was all
the more generous--all the more praiseworthy--all the more noble!”
cried Mrs. Sefton, in enthusiastic admiration of the absent baronet’s
character: “for I must no longer keep the fact a secret from you, my
dear friend--although I blush to acknowledge it----But you will not
think the worse of Agnes on account of her mother’s crime----”
“Heaven forbid that I should be so unjust!” ejaculated Trevelyan, in an
impassioned tone of profound sincerity.
“Thanks for that assurance--a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton.
“Yes--she indeed is pure and virtuous; and I would sooner perish by
my own hand than present to her an example of demoralisation in my
own conduct. And it is this same sentiment that animates Sir Gilbert
Heathcote--that has induced him to sacrifice all his own happiness to
her welfare--so that she may never have to think ill of _her mother_!
And now, my dear friend, you can probably conjecture the truth which my
lips scarcely dare frame?--you can perhaps divine wherefore Sir Gilbert
Heathcote is so deeply--so profoundly interested in the welfare of
Agnes?”
“Yes--I comprehend it all!” cried Trevelyan.
“And now you must look upon me with loathing--with abhorrence,”
murmured Mrs. Sefton, burying her countenance in her hands: “you must
despise and contemn the adulterous woman who allowed her husband to
exist in the belief that another’s child was his own!”
“No--no, my dear madam,” exclaimed the young nobleman; “I entertain no
such feelings towards you. I am acquainted with all your history--yes,
all----”
“All!” she repeated, in a tone of surprise: then, suddenly recollecting
herself, she said, “Oh! true--Sir Gilbert told me that my husband was
to call upon you this morning; and his lordship has therefore given you
_his_ version of our marriage-history.”
“Indeed, my dear friend,” returned Trevelyan, “he not only corroborated
every thing you had already made known to me, but gave me so many
additional details, all speaking in your favour--or at least in
extenuation----”
“I am glad that the Marquis does me so much justice,” interrupted Mrs.
Sefton: “heaven knows that I wish him all possible happiness! And that
he _has_ endeavoured to obliterate all recollection of me from his
mind, I am well aware; and in the arms of his mistresses he has sought
relief from any sense of injury or wrong that he may have experienced.
I do not mention this fact for the base and unworthy purpose of
disparaging the man whom I know that I _have_ injured: but it is in
justice to myself----”
“Ah! my dear lady, let us turn away from this topic as soon as
possible,” interrupted Trevelyan.
“Cheerfully--most cheerfully!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton. “We will speak
of Agnes--and of the resolutions which a sense of duty towards her has
engendered on the part of Sir Gilbert and myself. Thus stand all our
relative positions:--Should Sir Gilbert Heathcote become a frequent
visitor at this house, the tongue of scandal would soon find food for
its morbid appetite in this neighbourhood; and the discredit into which
I should fall--the opprobrium heaped upon me, would be reflected upon
my innocent daughter. That is one grave and important consideration.
Another is that, even if the former did not exist, or if Sir Gilbert
merely called occasionally in the light of a friend, it would be
impossible, situated as we are, to avoid little familiarities or marks
of affection, which would inevitably appear strange and extraordinary
to Agnes, and by degrees shock her pure mind. Lastly, your lordship has
honoured her with your attachment--you have demanded of me her hand in
marriage when the suitable time shall arrive;--and in the interval the
guardianship of the treasure which is to become your own, rests with
me. I must fulfil that trust in a manner that will give you no cause
to blush for the wife whom you will have to introduce to the world. It
is known in some few quarters already--it may become generally known
eventually, that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour have long
ceased to dwell together: but the actual cause of this separation has
never transpired, and need not. Thus, hitherto, nothing has occurred
to reflect dishonour upon the name of Lady Agnes; and it behoves alike
her mother, and _him who is her real father_, to pursue such a line of
conduct as may be most suitable to the welfare, happiness, and peace of
that beloved child.”
“I thank you--most cordially, most sincerely do I thank you,” exclaimed
Lord William Trevelyan, “for all the resolutions you have adopted, and
all the assurances you have now given me! Yes--I am indeed interested
in the welfare of your charming daughter; and the generous sacrifices
which yourself and Sir Gilbert have decided upon making, for her
benefit, prove how noble are your hearts!”
“Nay--now you compliment us too highly,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a
smile. “We have determined upon performing our duty;--and if, by so
doing,” she continued, in a more serious strain, “I can convince you
that the equivocal position in which I have so many years been placed,
has not destroyed the sense of rectitude and the true feelings of a
mother in my breast, I shall yet be able to receive the assurances of
your friendship without a blush, and without experiencing a sense of
shame in your presence.”
“Look upon me as your intended son-in-law, my excellent friend!”
exclaimed Lord William. “My opinion of you is as high as if I
were ignorant altogether of that equivocal position to which you
allude; and my sentiments towards Sir Gilbert Heathcote are of the
warmest description. For the sake of that daughter whom he dares not
acknowledge as such, he renounces your society--he tears himself away
from you--he abjures the companionship of her whom he has loved so
faithfully for many, many years! This is a self-sacrifice--a generous
devotion which cannot be too deeply appreciated. And now, my dear
friend,” continued the young nobleman, “it is my turn to give certain
explanations. In a word, I have this morning seen your husband, as
you are already aware--and he implored me to become instrumental in
restoring his daughter to his care. To speak candidly, I came hither
for the purpose of reasoning with you on the propriety of yielding to
that desire on his part----”
“Oh! you would not separate me from my Agnes?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton,
clasping her hands in an appealing manner, while her countenance
suddenly became pale and expressive of the acute anguish which the bare
idea caused her to experience.
“No--not after all you have now told me!” cried Trevelyan, in a tone
so emphatic as to be completely re-assuring. “I have such illimitable
confidence in you that it would be an insult,--nay, more--a flagrant
wrong,--to entertain the notion under existing circumstances. I shall
call upon the Marquis of Delmour this evening or to-morrow, and
candidly inform him that I can no longer recommend the separation of
Lady Agnes from her mother.”
“I return you my sincerest thanks for this proof of confidence which
you give me,” said Mrs. Sefton. “You had not, however, heard all the
resolutions upon which Sir Gilbert and myself have this morning agreed;
and now I have to make known to you a step that is about to be taken,
and which is rendered necessary by the perseverance that the Marquis of
Delmour is certain to exert with a view to regain possession of Agnes.
I propose to take her to France, where we may dwell in some peaceful
seclusion, until the two remaining years of her minority be passed.”
“And during those two years,” demanded Trevelyan, in a mournful tone,
“am I to be debarred from the pleasure of beholding her whom I love so
well?”
“I do not attempt to establish any interdiction of the kind,” said
Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “You will of course be made acquainted with
the place of our abode; and your correspondence or your visits--or
both--will be received with delight.”
“In this case, I must not offer a single objection to your plan,”
exclaimed Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up again.
“And had I recommended you neither to visit nor correspond,” said Mrs.
Sefton, in an arch tone of semi-reproach, “should you have opposed our
departure?”
“Oh! no--no: do not think that I am so selfish!” he cried. “I should
have considered this to be the day of self-devotion for all who are
interested in the welfare of your beautiful--your amiable Agnes. But
I behold her in the garden!” he exclaimed, as he looked towards the
window opening on the lawn at the back of the villa. “Have I your
permission to join her there for a few minutes?”
Mrs. Sefton signified her assent with a smile and a graceful gesture;
and in a few moments Trevelyan was by the side of the beauteous Agnes
in the garden.
The young lady was mournful at first--because her mother had already
communicated to her their intended departure for the continent: but
when Trevelyan, turning the discourse upon that topic, gave her to
understand that he had received permission to visit them wheresoever
they might fix their abode, and correspond with them frequently,--when
he even ventured so far as to hint how it was more than probable that
he would follow them to the same place, and establish his own temporary
dwelling there, so as to be able to see them every day,--then was
it that the young maiden’s countenance brightened up, and Trevelyan
gathered therefrom the silent but eloquent assurance that he was not
indifferent to her.
The few minutes which he had obtained permission to pass with Agnes
grew into hours; and when, between four and five o’clock in the
evening, Mrs. Sefton came herself to announce to the youthful pair in
the garden that dinner was already served up, he uttered an ejaculation
of surprise that it could be so late! Agnes said nothing--but cast
down her eyes, and blushed deeply; and her mother, who knew what love
was and all its symptoms, was now fully convinced that her daughter’s
gentle heart was well disposed towards the noble suitor for her hand.
CHAPTER CXCVII.
THE MARQUIS OF DELMOUR.
On the following morning, Lord William Trevelyan called upon the
Marquis of Delmour, whom he found pacing his apartment in great
agitation.
The old nobleman had two sources of annoyance at that moment: the first
was the suspense in which he existed relative to the result of his
endeavours to regain possession of Agnes, whom he devotedly loved;--and
the other was in respect to Laura Mortimer.
He had heard from his bankers on the previous evening that the cheque
for sixty thousand pounds had been duly presented and cashed; and he
therefore concluded that the young lady had arrived in London. But why
had she not written to him? His impatience to receive a note from her
was in proportion to the madness--the intensity, of that passion with
which her transcendent loveliness and her syren witcheries had inspired
him; and his excited imagination conjured up a thousand reasons for
this silence. He fancied that some accident might have occurred to
her,--or that she had written, and her letter had miscarried; in which
case she herself would be marvelling at his tardiness in repairing
to her,--or that she had changed her mind, and repented of the
promise she had made to become the old man’s mistress. Then jealousy
took possession of his soul; and he could scarcely control within
reasonable bounds the emotions that agitated in his breast.
The arrival of Trevelyan, however, promised to relieve him of at least
one cause of suspense and anxiety; and, the moment the young nobleman
entered the apartment, the Marquis rushed precipitately forward to meet
him.
“In pursuance of my promise,” said Lord William, when the usual
compliments were interchanged, “I called upon her ladyship--Mrs.
Sefton, I mean, yesterday--and had a long interview with her.”
“And the result?” demanded, the Marquis, impatiently.
“I regret to state that, after all I heard upon the occasion, I cannot
either recommend the withdrawal of Lady Agnes from her mother’s charge,
or interfere any farther in this family matter,” responded the young
nobleman. “Mrs. Sefton will see Sir Gilbert Heathcote no more, and will
devote herself to that maternal care which she is so well qualified to
bestow upon her daughter.”
“Then, my lord,” exclaimed the Marquis, impetuously, “I shall at once
appeal to the tribunals of my country for that redress which I ought to
have demanded long ago.”
“Pardon me, my lord,” said Trevelyan, “for reminding you that there is
much to be considered ere you put this threat into execution. By giving
publicity to your unhappy family-affairs, you may to some extent act
injuriously to the welfare of your daughter.”
“True!” ejaculated the old nobleman, struck by the observation. “And
yet am I to remain quiet and tranquil beneath this additional wrong
which is thus thrust upon me by her who in law is still my wife?”
“For your daughter’s sake you must endure it--if a wrong it indeed be,”
answered Trevelyan solemnly.
“And Agnes--has she learnt the secret of her birth?--does she cling to
her mother, in preference to me?--does she devote not a single thought
to the father who has ever behaved with so much tenderness towards
her?” demanded the Marquis. “Reply, my lord, to all these questions.”
“Your daughter still believes herself to be plain Miss Agnes,” was the
answer; “and she is not taught to forget her father.”
“But what must she think of the strange circumstance, that while she
believes herself to be the bearer of her father’s name of Vernon, her
mother is known by that of Sefton?” asked the nobleman.
“She has adopted the latter name, as a natural consequence of her
restoration to the maternal parent,” was the reply; “but her pure and
artless mind cherishes not the curiosity which, in ordinary cases,
would prompt many questions relative to all these points. She imagines,
generally, that particular causes of unhappiness have led to the
separation of her parents, and that the adoption of different names was
the necessary result. For the rest, believe me that she will be well
cared for by her mother, and that she will never be tutored to think of
you otherwise than with respect and gratitude.”
“Is she happy with her mother--happier than she was in her own cottage,
under my care?” inquired the Marquis, after a long panic, during which
he seemed to reflect deeply.
“She is happy, my lord,” responded Trevelyan: “but I will not aver that
she is _happier_ than she was. She thinks of you constantly--speaks of
you often----”
“Then I will do nothing that shall interfere with her
tranquillity--nothing that shall bring into the light of publicity
those circumstances that would give her so much pain,” interrupted
the Marquis, who, though sensual, jealous, and imperious in
disposition,--though addicted to pleasures of a profligate
description,--was nevertheless characterised by many lofty feelings and
generous sentiments, as indeed the whole tenour of his conduct towards
Agnes had fully proven.
Lord William Trevelyan thanked him for the assurances which he had just
given, and shortly afterwards took his leave, highly rejoiced at the
manner in which the interview had terminated.
It must be observed that the passion which the Marquis of Delmour
had formed for Laura Mortimer and the hope which he entertained of
speedily possessing her as his mistress, had in a slight degree
diminished the intensity of his anxiety to recover Agnes; inasmuch as
his arrangements in respect to Laura had not only served to occupy his
mind--abstract his thoughts somewhat from the contemplation of the loss
of his daughter--and hold forth the promise of a solace to be derived
from the society of that lovely creature whose unaccountable silence
nevertheless tormented him sadly.
The day passed--and still no communication arrived. Let it be
remembered it was on this self-same day that Laura and the Count were
married; and it was during the following night that Mrs. Mortimer met
her dreadful death in the manner already described.
The ensuing morning found the Marquis pale, agitated, and racked by a
thousand anxious fears, amongst which jealousy was often uppermost as
he revolved in his mind all the possible reasons that could account for
the protracted silence of the young lady.
He sate down to breakfast for form’s sake--but ate nothing. Never did
his gilded saloons appear more desolate--more lonely;--and yet it was
not to them that he had contemplated bringing his beautiful mistress!
Presently the morning papers were laid upon the table; and mechanically
casting his eyes over one of them, he observed a short article, headed
“DIABOLICAL OUTRAGE AND FRIGHTFUL DEATH.”
He commenced the perusal of the account; and the apathy with which he
began, speedily changed into the most intense interest: for the article
ran thus:--
“Last night, shortly after the hour of twelve, the inhabitants of
Westbourne Place and the immediate neighbourhood were thrown into
the greatest alarm by the sudden outburst of the most dreadful
screaming, as of a female in mortal agonies. These terrific signs
of distress appeared to emanate from a narrow lane, passing by the
side of a beautiful villa in the occupation of the Count and Countess
of Carignano, who, it appears, had been married in the morning, and
had only entered their new abode immediately after the ceremony.
His lordship, attended by his valet, lost no time in descending to
the succour of the afflicted person, whoever it might be; and they
discovered an elderly lady in the agonies of death. They conveyed her
into the villa, where, to the horror of the Count and his lovely
bride, it was found that the dying woman was none other than Mrs.
Mortimer, the mother of the Countess. Medical assistance was promptly
sent for; but before the nearest surgeon could arrive death had
terminated the sufferings of the lamented lady. The horrible nature
of those sufferings can be readily understood, when, on surgical
examination, it transpired that an immense quantity of the strongest
vitriol had been thrown over her; and there were proofs that the bottle
containing the burning fluid had been broken over her head. The affair
is involved in some mystery: but it is presumed that, while repairing
to her daughter’s abode, she must have missed her way and got into
the lane, where some murderous ruffian, undeserving of the name of a
man, perpetrated the frightful outrage. Our readers may remember that
this is not the only case of the terrible use of vitriol which we have
recently been so painfully compelled to record; and, from all we can
learn, there is a monster in human shape, well known to the police,
and bearing the significant though horrible denomination of _Vitriol
Robert_--or more familiarly, _Vitriol Bob_--who has for some time
past infested the metropolis, and who makes use of the burning liquid
as an adjunct to his predatory attacks on the unwary in lone or dark
neighbourhoods. The above are all the particulars which we have been as
yet able to obtain, owing to the advanced period of the night when the
diabolical outrage was perpetrated.
This narrative, detailed with all the mannerism of an export
penny-a-liner, excited the jealous rage of the Marquis of Delmour
almost to madness.
The whole thing was as clear as daylight! The Mrs. Mortimer who had
met her death in such a dreadful way, was evidently the old woman
whom he had seen on several occasions; and she _was_, after all, the
mother of Laura! The perfidious Laura herself had become the wife of
another;--and the Marquis was compelled to open his eyes to the fact
that he had been most egregiously duped by an adventuress.
Hastily summoning his carriage, the Marquis proceeded direct to his
bankers’; where he found that the sixty thousand pounds had indeed been
paid; but, on farther inquiry, he ascertained that an old woman had
presented the cheque. The description of the recipient was then given
by the clerk who cashed the draft; and the Marquis became convinced
that she was none other than Mrs. Mortimer. The bankers perceiving that
he was anxious to learn who had actually obtained the money, produced
the cheque itself, the female’s name being written on the back in token
of acquittal; and there were the words--MARTHA MORTIMER.
In a mechanical way, and while deliberating what step next to
take, the enraged nobleman cast his eyes over the draft; when he
started convulsively--for he instantly detected the forgery, or
rather alteration, that had been effected: and then, in his furious
excitement, the principal facts of the story came out--showing how he
had been induced to give the cheque.
All was now amazement and alarm in the bank-parlour; and one of the
partners in the firm suggested the propriety of repairing immediately
to the dwelling of the Count of Carignano, for the purpose of
communicating with the Countess relative to the transaction. But the
Marquis, who by this time had grown somewhat more cool, began to
reflect that any publicity which was given to the matter would only
cover him with ridicule; and as the money was not of such consequence
to him as the avoidance of the shame attendant on the business, he
wisely resolved to hush up the whole affair.
The bankers were by no means averse to this amicable mode of
adjustment, inasmuch as it relieved them from all doubt or uncertainty,
and all possibility of dispute relative to the party on whom the loss
consequent on the forgery was to fall; and they therefore readily
consented to retain the transaction profoundly secret. At the same
time, they understood fully that they were not to pay the genuine
cheque for sixty thousand pounds, in case of its presentation; the
Marquis resolving to take time to consider what course he should pursue
with regard to that portion of the business.
The old nobleman drove home again; and, on his arrival at his stately
mansion, he shut himself up in his own chamber to reflect upon the
startling revelations of that day.
Not for an instant did he entertain the idea of seeking an interview
with Laura. Such a step was useless: for she had no doubt married, he
reasoned, according to her taste. Moreover, his pride revolted at the
bare idea of undergoing the humiliation and shame of being laughed at
by one who would probably care nothing for any reproaches that might be
levelled against her.
But how was he to recover the cheque? It was valid in her hands: for
even if she had connived at her mother’s forgery, the collusion could
not be brought home to her. Still, the Marquis did not at all admire
the idea of paying another sixty thousand--especially for one who had
so grossly deluded him.
By degrees the old nobleman’s thoughts became so bewildering that he
felt as if he were going mad. He had lost his daughter--he had lost his
mistress--he had been duped out of his money--and, vile though Laura
evidently was, he nevertheless still adored her image with a devouring
passion.
He walked up and down his room in a state of excitement that was
increasing cruelly, and that produced a hurry in the brain--a confusion
in the ideas--a delirium in the imagination.
The fever of his reflections augmented to such a height that he began
to conjure up a variety of evils and annoyances which did not really
exist. He pictured to himself his bankers laughing heartily at his
folly--retelling the scandal as an excellent joke--and propagating
the most offensive rumours all over the town. He fancied that he
beheld his friends and acquaintances endeavouring to conceal their
satirical smiles as they accosted him--he beheld the entire House
of Lords forgetting their dignity and whispering together in a
significant manner as he entered the assembly. Then his thoughts
suddenly travelled to Agnes; and all his ancient doubts and fears
relative to his paternity in respect to her, returned with overpowering
violence; until he felt convinced that she was indeed the offspring of
an adulterous connexion between his wife and Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
Lastly, by a rapid transition, his imagination wandered to the
abode of the Count and Countessa of Carignano; and he pictured the
lovely--seducing--voluptuous Laura in the arms of a rival!
All these reflections maddened the old man--deprived him of his
reason--rendered him desperate--and made life appear to him a burthen
of anguish and an intolerable misfortune.
He did not remember his boundless wealth--his proud titles--his
stately mansions--and all the means of pleasure, enjoyment, and
solace that were within his reach: his morbid condition of mind
obtained such a potent sway over him, that he only saw in himself a
lone--desolate--wretched old man,--deprived of his daughter--deprived
of his mistress--deprived of his money--and with the myriad fingers of
scorn pointing towards him.
Though the sun was shining joyously, and its golden beams penetrated
into the chamber through the opening in the rich drapery,--yet all
seemed dark--dreary--and cheerless to the miserable Marquis of Delmour:
his powerful intellect--his vigorous understanding--his moral courage,
were all subdued--crushed--overwhelmed beneath a weight of trifling
realities and tremendous fancies.
In this state of mind the miserable man suddenly rushed to his
toilette-case--seized his razor--and inflicted a ghastly wound upon his
throat.
At the same instant that he fell--the blood pouring forth like a
torrent--a valet entered the room, bearing a letter upon a silver tray.
CHAPTER CXCVIII.
CASTELCICALA.
Turn we now to the State of Castelcicala--that lovely land which lies
between the northern frontiers of the Neapolitan dominions and the
southern confines of the Papal territory.
It was a glorious morning--and bright and varied were the hues which
the sea took from the rosy clouds, as a splendid war-steamer advanced
rapidly over the bosom of the waters.
The Royal Standard of Castelcicala floated from the main-mast; and upon
the deck was a group of officers in magnificent uniforms, gathered
around a young man of tall form and noble air, who was attired in deep
black. But upon his breast a star denoted his sovereign rank; and his
commanding, though unaffected demeanour well became the chieftain of a
mighty State.
That gallant steamer was the _Torione_, the pride of the Royal Navy of
Castelcicala--that young man was Richard Markham, now become the Grand
Duke of the principality which he had rescued from slavery--and amongst
the aides-de-camp in attendance was his enthusiastic admirer, the
erring but deeply repentant Charles Hatfield.
Shortly after ten o’clock on this glorious morning the steamer came
within sight of Montoni, the capital of Castelcicala; and as soon
as the Royal Standard was descried by those in that city who were
earnestly watching the arrival of their new monarch, the artillery of
the batteries and the cannon of the ships in the harbour thundered
forth a salute in honour of the illustrious prince.
In an hour and a half the steamer swept gallantly into the fine port of
Montoni; the yards of all the vessels were manned; and the welkin rang
with enthusiastic shouts of welcome.
Richard--or, as we should rather call him, Ricardo--was deeply affected
by these demonstrations, which he acknowledged with many graceful bows;
and when he landed amongst the greatest concourse of multitudes ever
assembled on the quays of Montoni, and amidst the most joyous cries
and the thunder of the artillery, he retained his hat in his hand as a
proof of respect to that Sovereign People from whom his power emanated.
The royal carriages were in attendance; and as he rode along the
streets towards the palace, the vast crowds kept pace with the
vehicles, cheering and waving their hats and handkerchiefs all
the way. The windows and balconies were filled with gentlemen and
elegantly-dressed ladies; and flowers were thrown forth by fair hands
in token of the general delight which attended upon the arrival of the
warrior-prince.
As on the day after the memorable battle of Montoni, which gave peace
and freedom to Castelcicala, the bells were ringing in every tower, and
the cannon were still vomiting forth their thunder, their fire, and
their smoke, when the Grand Duke Ricardo alighted at the entrance of
the palace. There--upon the marble steps--stood the joy of his heart,
the charming and well-beloved Isabella, with their two children, the
little Prince Alberto and the Princess Eliza--so called after a valued
friend.[31] In company with Isabella were her mother (now Dowager Grand
Duchess), Ricardo’s sister the Princess Katherine, and her husband
Prince Mario. All were dressed in deep mourning: but the presence of
Ricardo evoked smiles as well as tears,--and those who wept for the
loss of the late lamented Grand Duke, found consolation and experienced
a source of ineffable joy in the possession of him who had become his
successor.
Moreover, the funeral of the departed one had already taken place; and
there was consequently no sad ceremony to be performed which might
revive the bitterness of grief.
That evening Montoni was brilliantly illuminated; and the streets were
thronged with multitudes who made a general holiday on the occasion of
the arrival of that excellent prince to whom they owed so much.
And it was a glorious spectacle to behold the appearance of the people
in that capital of the most prosperous country in the whole world. Not
a mendicant was to be seen: the loathsome rags and hideous emblems of
poverty which meet the eye in every thoroughfare and in every corner of
London, had ceased to exist in Montoni. The industrious classes were
all cheerful in looks and neat in attire; and instead of the emaciated
women, and pale, sickly children observable in such appalling numbers
in the British metropolis, the wives of the working-men were all comely
and contented, and their offspring ruddy with the hues of vigorous
health. Oh! it was a blessed--blessed thing to behold those gay and
happy multitudes--rendered thus gay and thus happy by means of good
institutions, honest Ministers, and a Parliament chosen by the entire
male adult population!
Though the streets were thus thronged to excess, and the houses
of entertainment were crowded, the utmost order, sobriety, and
tranquillity prevailed. There were no police visible: because none
were required. Every citizen, whether employer or employed--whether
capitalist or mechanic--whether gentleman or artizan--whether
landowner or labourer, was himself a policeman, as it were, in his
own good conduct and excellent example. _For from the time that
liberal and enlightened institutions, involving the true spirit of
Republicanism, were applied to Castelcicala, the regular police-force
had been abolished and no necessity arose for its revival._
Such was the aspect of the capital of Castelcicala--that model State
where Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality were acknowledged principles,
practically known and duly appreciated.
On the ensuing morning the Grand Duke Ricardo proceeded to the Chamber
of Deputies, where the Senators were also assembled on the occasion.
The galleries were crowded with ladies and gentlemen; and the whole of
the diplomatic corps were in the seats allotted to them. Even though
all present were in deep mourning for the late sovereign, the aspect of
the spacious hall was far from gloomy, though solemn and imposing.
The arrival of the new Grand Duke was expected with the most intense
interest. It was well known that not only had he suggested the
principal reforms which Duke Alberto had applied to Castelcicala, but
that he was even far more liberal in his political opinions than his
departed father-in-law. It was consequently anticipated that on the
present occasion he would enunciate the line of policy which it was his
intention to adopt; and every one felt convinced that this would prove
a day memorable in the history of Castelcicala.
We should observe that on the platform of the Chamber, instead of the
throne being placed for the reception of the Grand Duke, a simple
arm-chair was raised about three feet higher than that occupied by the
President of the Deputies; and instead of the royal standard flowing
with its graceful drapery over-head, the tricolour was suspended to the
wall. These changes, it was well known, had been effected by order of
the Grand Duke himself; and all present were aware that his Sovereign
Highness was not the man merely to displace the symbols of royalty
without having some congenial and practical object in view.
At half-past ten o’clock the Ministers entered and took their seats
amidst loud applause from the galleries; for this was the same
Cabinet that Ricardo had nominated five years previously, during his
brief Regency; and its policy had been such as to gain for it the
enthusiastic affection of the nation and the admiration of the whole
civilised world.
Shortly after the arrival of those high functionaries, the Royal Family
appeared in the Chamber, amidst deafening cheers, and took their seats
upon the platform, behind the President’s desk; and in a few minutes
the roar of the artillery on the ramparts announced to the capital that
the Grand Duke had quitted the palace on his way to the legislative
assembly.
It was precisely at eleven that Ricardo, attended by his staff, entered
the hall; and his presence was the signal for a more hearty renewal
of the cheering, while the ladies in the galleries waved their snowy
handkerchiefs in unfeigned welcome.
But it was almost immediately noticed that the Grand Duke appeared--not
in the royal robes worn on such occasions by all his predecessors--but
in the uniform of a Field-Marshal, with a black crape round his left
arm in token of mourning for the late monarch. He was decorated only
with the Castelcicalan Order of Knighthood, and did not even wear
upon his breast the star that denoted his sovereign rank. These
circumstances gave a sharper edge to the keenness of curiosity; and
when the cheering, which was loud and long, died away beneath the lofty
roof of the spacious hall, the silence that ensued was deep and solemn
as that of the tomb.
Then the Grand Duke, rising from the arm-chair which he had for a few
moments occupied, addressed the assembly in the following manner:
“MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,--You have recently experienced a great and
grievous loss in the death of a wise, enlightened, and virtuous
Sovereign, whose brief but glorious reign was devoted to those measures
best calculated to ensure the happiness, prosperity, and morality of
the Castelcicalan people. The name of Alberto will live in history so
long as the world shall endure; and his memory will be cherished in the
hearts of this and all succeeding generations of the inhabitants of
that clime which his wisdom and his example have so supremely blessed.
“Had I consulted my own private feelings, I should have allowed some
time to elapse ere I appeared before you to shadow forth that line
of policy which it is my duty to recommend to your deliberations: I
should have craved leisure to weep over the loss of my illustrious
father-in-law, and meditate upon those grand lessons which his
memorable reign have taught us. But I feel that the welfare of an
entire people is too solemnly important and too sacred a thing to be
for even a moment lost sight of; and that when the head of a State is
called away to the tomb, his successor must devote no time to a grief
which cannot recall the departed, but must at once take up without
intermission the grand work of reform that was progressing at the
period of Death’s arrival. For it is a great and flagrant wrong for
those who are entrusted with power, to interpose delays in the proper
exercise thereof; and that man is a traitor to his country and deserves
execration who dares to intimate that there is no need of haste in
accomplishing a great national good.
“These are the motives which have induced me to appear thus before you
even at so early a period that the remains of my lamented predecessor
can scarcely be said to have grown cold in the tomb: but I repeat that
if men accept the responsibilities of power and office, they must
permit no considerations to retard them in the performance of their
duty and the fulfilment of their high vicarious mission.
“Last evening I assembled the Ministers around me, and submitted to
them the views which I had some time ago matured, and which I proposed
to put into practice so soon as the natural course of events and the
will of the Sovereign People should place me at the head of affairs.
The Ministers were unanimous in adopting those views, and cheerfully
undertook to lay them in the usual manner before the Legislative
Assemblies. But in the meantime, it behoves me briefly to detail the
nature of these plans which are thus deemed suitable to the interests
and in accordance with the just rights of the Castelcicalans.
“In the first place I propose that the form of Government shall be
Republican, not merely in institutions, but likewise in name; and in
order that this idea may be fully carried out, it will be necessary
that certain sacrifices should be made in particular quarters. I
now especially allude to the class denominated the _nobility_. The
existence of aristocratic titles is totally incompatible with the
purity and simplicity of Republicanism; and the country therefore
expects from the patriotism of the nobles a ready concession of these
invidious distinctions,--distinctions which are nothing more nor
less than the relics of feudal barbarism. For my part, I cheerfully
undertake to set the example, if example be indeed required to induce
men to the performance of their duty. With this determination I have
come before you to-day,--not as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala--not
as a Sovereign-Prince,--but as the First Magistrate of the State,
retaining only that military rank which I have won upon the fields of
victory. From this moment, then, you may know me, and I wish to be
known only, as General Markham; and this same abnegation of title I
proclaim on the part of my beloved wife, my revered mother-in-law, and
the rest of the Royal Family.”
[Illustration]
During several parts of his speech, Ricardo had been frequently
interrupted by outbursts of enthusiastic cheering: but when he reached
this solemn and important climax, the whole assembly rose and greeted
him with the most joyous shouts--the most fervent applause that ever
expressed the unfeigned admiration of a generous patriotism. The ladies
in the galleries absolutely wept in the excitement of their feelings:
for never--never was seen so sublime a spectacle as this of a mighty
Prince casting his crown, his sceptre, and his titles at the feet of
the Goddess of Liberty!
“I accept with ineffable pleasure this demonstration of approval,”
resumed Ricardo, after a long pause; “and it gave me unspeakable
delight to behold the Peers themselves joining as enthusiastically as
the rest in those evidences of assent. When all titles are abolished,
save those which properly and necessarily belong to the various grades
of naval and military rank, the vanity attending upon the pride of
birth will perish through a deserved inanition, and emulation will
point to the only true aristocracy,--namely, that of VIRTUE and of
MIND. The Ministers will accordingly propose to you such measures as
may tend effectually to establish Republican Institutions in this
State. They will recommend the abolition of the Upper House, and the
retention only of the Chamber of Deputies, which must be numerically
strengthened. They will propose that the Chief Magistrate, to be
denominated _President_, shall be chosen for a period of three years,
and liable to re-election. The power of _veto_, the privilege of making
peace or declaring war, and other attributes purely monarchical, will
not he conceded to the President, but must exist in the Chamber itself;
and instead of the effigy of the ruler upon the current coin, the arms
of the Republic should be impressed. Every public act and deed must
be accomplished in the name of the Sovereign People, the President
serving the purpose of the executive agent, as responsible for his own
conduct as the Ministers themselves are held to be for theirs. These
and other reforms, all tending to the prompt and complete establishment
of pure Republican Institutions, will be at once submitted to your
deliberations.
“I have not the slightest doubt that the moment the news of all
that is passing within these walls, shall reach the ears of the
other potentates of Italy, remonstrances will be poured in by their
diplomatic agents resident in Montoni;--and perhaps even menaces may be
used. I however feel convinced that no argument which may be adopted
in such remonstrances can possibly blind your eyes to the beauty of
Freedom and the excellence of Liberty: and as for the menaces, I need
only observe that a Castelcicalan army, animated by a republican
spirit, would prove invincible.”
These words again elicited the most tremendous cheering: and after
another long pause, Ricardo wound up his address in the following
manner:--
“All of you who are here present well remember the condition
of the country previously to the accession of the late Grand
Duke. Poverty, and its invariable handmaids--squalor, filth and
demoralisation--presided over the lot of the industrious classes.
Oppression was felt everywhere--happiness existed only in the mansions
of a favoured few. The people were looked upon as the serfs and
slaves of the rich oligarchy; and the very vitals of a healthy state
of society were thus corrupt and rotten. But a change came over the
country: it was decreed that every man should have fair wages for fair
work; and that all able and willing to work, should have work found
for them. In order to accomplish these aims, it was necessary to set
about reclaiming the waste lands in those districts where they lay;
and in others, the owners of estates were by a just law compelled to
throw certain portions of their parks and pleasure-grounds into a
corn cultivation, and to level all their game-preserves for the same
purpose. What have been the results of these measures? Labour has been
abundant, and wages high: employment has extirpated mendicancy; and
squalor, filth, and demoralisation exist no longer within the confines
of Castelcicala. But what would I have you infer from these facts? That
if the people of this country have already so largely and so admirably
profited by liberal institutions,--if the reforms hitherto accomplished
have so materially enhanced the general prosperity, producing
abundance, happiness, and contentment,--who shall be able to divine
to what point that prosperity may arrive, under the pure, simple, and
truly Christian institutions of republicanism.”
Having thus spoken, with the tone, manner, and eloquence of deep
conviction, General Markham--for so we must now denominate him--bowed
to the assembly, and withdrew amidst applause which was prolonged for
some minutes after he had quitted the spacious hall.
His wife and illustrious relatives left the platform at the same
time;--and now behold this illustrious family returning to the palace,
attended by the grateful and rejoicing myriads, who, having assembled
round the Chamber, had already received the intelligence of the
memorable proceedings that had taken place within;--proceedings which
in a single hour had accomplished the most effectual and yet utterly
bloodless revolution ever known in any age or in any country!
CHAPTER CXCIX.
THE MARCHIONESS OF DELMOUR.
The Marquis of Delmour awoke, as it were from a deep trance; and,
opening his languid eyes, he beheld a female form bending over him. He
attempted to speak: but the lady placed one slender finger on her lips
in token of silence;--and, closing his eyes again, the old nobleman
endeavoured to collect his scattered ideas--or rather, to dispel the
mist which hung over them.
It struck him that the countenance which he had just seen was not
unknown to him;--and as he dwelt upon it in imagination, it gradually
became more familiar,--while, by imperceptible degrees, it awoke
reminiscences of the past--some of pleasure, but most of pain,--until
an idea of the real truth dawned in upon the mind of the Marquis.
Then again he opened his eyes;--and though long years had elapsed
since last he beheld that countenance, each feature--each lineament
was immediately recognised. But so confused were his thoughts that he
could not recollect why a feeling of aversion and repugnance prevented
him from experiencing joy at the presence of her who was standing, in
painful suspense, by his bed-side.
At last, as reason asserted her empire, a knowledge of who she was and
all the incidents associated with her revived in his soul; while, at
the same time and with a species of under-current of the reflections,
a feeling of what had happened to himself and why he was stretched
in his couch came slowly upon him. They he suddenly raised his hand
to his throat; and the bandage _there_ convinced him that the last
reminiscence which had just stolen into his mind, was indeed too true!
Averting his eyes from the mournful and plaintive countenance which was
still bending over him, he groaned aloud in very bitterness:--and then
a deep silence ensued in the chamber.
Several minutes elapsed, during which the burning tears streamed down
the lady’s face: but she subdued the sobs that almost choked her--for
she would not for worlds permit any evidence of her own deep grief to
disturb the meditations of the enfeebled nobleman. On his side, he
was absorbed in profound thought,--the incidents of the past rapidly
becoming more definite and vivid in his memory, until there were few
things left in uncertainty or doubt--and nothing in oblivion.
Slowly turning towards the lady, the Marquis saw that she was
overwhelmed with sorrow--although she hastily wiped away her
tears;--and moved--deeply moved by this spectacle, as well as
influenced by a host of tender recollections, the old man extended his
hand towards her, murmuring, “My wife! is it indeed she who is now
watching by my side?”
“O heaven! he recollects me--he will forgive me!” she exclaimed, in a
tone of the liveliest joy; and carrying her husband’s emaciated hand to
her lips, she covered it with kisses.
“Sophia,” said the old man, in a low voice and speaking with
difficulty, “we meet after a long--long separation. But let us forget
the past----”
“Is it possible that _you_ can forget it?” asked Mrs. Sefton--or rather
the Marchioness of Delmour; and bending her burning face over his hand
which she still retained in both her own, she added in a tone so low
that it seemed as if she feared even to hear her own words, “You have
so much to pardon! But I never viewed my conduct in this light until I
came and beheld you stretched upon the bed of--of----”
“Of death,” said the Marquis, his pale countenance becoming, if
possible, more ghastly pallid still.
“No--no,” exclaimed the Marchioness, with the excitement of voice and
the gesture of despair; “you must not talk nor think thus despondingly!
But tell me, my husband--tell me--oh! say, can you forgive me for the
past?”
“We have much to forgive on either side, Sophia,” responded the
Marquis: “and as I was the first cause of dissension between us--as I
indeed was the author of all your unhappiness, by forcing you into a
marriage which you abhorred--’tis for me to demand pardon first. Tell
me, then, Sophia--tell me that you _can_ pardon me for all the misery I
have been the wretched means of heaping upon your head?”
“Oh! yes--yes!” exclaimed the lady, the tears again pouring in torrents
down her cheeks: “would to heaven that I could prove to you how deeply
sensible I am of this kindness which you now manifest towards me!”
“Then you forgive me!” cried the nobleman, pressing her hand tenderly,
while joy beamed in his eyes hitherto dim with the glazing influence
of a mortal enervation:--“then you forgive me!” he repeated, his voice
becoming stronger.
“Yes--oh! yes--a thousand times _yes_!” she exclaimed; and bending over
him, she pressed her lips upon his cold forehead. “But do you pardon me
likewise?” she asked, after a few moments’ pause.
“It was I who provoked all that has occurred--I who was the unhappy
means of blighting the pure affections of your youth,” returned the
Marquis; “and therefore--whatever may have been the consequences--I am
bound to pardon and forget. Alas! Sophia, often and often--and with
feelings of ineffable pain and anguish--have I thought of that fatal
day when, long years ago, I levelled at you a terrible accusation. But
I was a coward--and I was cruel thus to have taxed you with a fault
which at that period my jealous suspicions alone----”
“To what do you allude?” demanded the Marchioness, inwardly shocked,
and with her heart bleeding as she asked the question: for she divined
too well to what her husband _did_ allude--and she was almost crushed
with a devouring sense of shame.
“Oh! if you can have forgotten that fatal day,” exclaimed the Marquis,
whose sight was too dim, and whose mental powers of perception were
too weak to enable him to understand rightly his wife’s present
emotions,--“then are you happy indeed! For, alas! I referred to the day
on which we separated, sixteen or seventeen years ago--I cannot now
remember accurately how many have passed since then----”
“And why allude to that unhappy epoch?” asked the lady, in a low and
tremulous tone.
“Because I wish to convince you that I am indeed repentant for all the
share which I took in sealing our misery,” replied the nobleman. “On
that memorable day, I accused you of infidelity towards me--and yet
subsequent reflection has convinced me that you were innocent _then_!
Oh! never--never shall I forget that tone in which you breathed the
fatal words--‘_All is now at an end between you and me! We part--for
ever!_’ I have thought since--aye, and I have said that you resembled
what would be a sculptor’s or an artist’s conception of _Injured
Innocence_; and then, when I adjured you in the name of your infant
daughter to stay, you uttered a wild cry and fled! That cry rings in my
ears now--has vibrated in my brain ever since----”
“Oh! in the name of heaven, proceed not thus!” murmured the
Marchioness, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly.
But wherefore, did she thus weep?--wherefore were her emotions so
powerful? Why was her heart thus wrung until every fibre appeared to
be stretched to its utmost power of tension? It was because on the
occasion to which the Marquis referred, _guilt_ and not _innocence_
had made her voice hollow and thick as she breathed the words which
decreed an eternal separation!--it was because that wild cry had been
wrung from her by the appeal that was made in the name of the infant
child whom she knew to be the offspring of her amour with Sir Gilbert
Heathcote! But there are times when _Conscious Guilt_ so much resembles
_Injured Innocence_, that the most keen observer may be deceived;--and
such was the fact in the case now alluded to.
A long pause ensued--during which the Marquis, still totally ignorant
of the real nature of his wife’s emotions, gazed upon her with an
affectionate interest that was rapidly growing into a resuscitated love.
“Weep not, dearest,” he at length said;--“weep not, I implore you!”
“I weep, because I feel that I am so completely unworthy of your
present kindness,” responded the Marchioness, withdrawing her hands
from her face, and bending her tearful eyes with an expression of such
mournfulness and such profound penitence upon her husband, that had he
the power to raise himself in the bed, he would have snatched her to
his bosom.
“It is now my turn to implore you not to dwell longer upon the past,”
he said, taking one of her hands and conveying it to his lips. “We
have promised mutual forgiveness. You have pardoned me for forcing you
into a marriage which caused all your unhappiness: and I have pardoned
you for your connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote since the period of
our separation. This is the understanding between us, Sophia--and now
we are friends again. But tell me, my dear wife--tell me how long I
have been stretched on this bed, and how you came thus to be here to
minister unto me?”
“Four days have elapsed since you--since--” began the Marchioness,
hesitating how to allude to the dreadful attempt at suicide which her
husband had committed.
“Oh! name not the horrible deed!” he groaned forth, writhing in anguish.
“But it is not known--save to three or four persons,” hastily observed
his wife, well aware that this assurance would prove consolatory.
“Heaven be thanked!” murmured the old nobleman, clasping his hands
fervently. “And now tell me, my dear Sophia, how you came to learn the
shocking intelligence?”
“If you will compose yourself as much as you can, and speak but little,
I will explain every thing to you,” she answered, assuming, with
captivating tenderness of tone and manner, the position of wife and
nurse.
“One word first!” exclaimed the Marquis. “Agnes--”
“Is here--beneath your roof,” was the reply.
“My daughter again near me!” he murmured, joy animating his
countenance: but in another moment a cloud overspread his features, as
he said hesitatingly, “Does she know of the dreadful attempt that I
made upon my life?”
“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Marchioness, shocked at the bare idea.
“That circumstance has been religiously withheld from her. She is
however now aware that she is the daughter of the Marquis of Delmour,
and not of plain Mr. Vernon; and she believes you to be dangerously
ill. She has indeed been my companion for hours together by your
bed-side----”
“Dearest Agnes!” exclaimed the nobleman, with an effusion of tenderness
in his tone. “I will see her presently--when I am more composed,” he
added. “And now give me the promised explanations relative to all I
have asked you.”
“Listen, then, my dear husband--and do not interrupt me. Yon have
already spoken too much, considering your depressed and enfeebled
state; and Sir John Lascelles, when he calls again, will be angry
with me for permitting you to use such exertions. Oh! you know not
how kind--how attentive he has been! But you will shortly have an
opportunity of thanking him with your own lips--for he will be here in
an hour. Though the room be darkened, it is now about eleven o’clock in
the morning; and he will call at noon. Compose yourself, therefore; and
I will give you all the details you require.”
The Marchioness arranged her husband’s pillows--kissed his forehead
once more--and then, seating herself by his bed-side, proceeded as
follows:--
“That excellent young nobleman, Lord William Trevelyan, called upon me
a few days ago, in consequence of an interview which he had had with
you. It was relative to Agnes. I assured him that Sir Gilbert Heathcote
and myself had come to an understanding that we should see each other
no more; and I likewise informed Lord William that it was my intention
to repair with Agnes to the Continent. But after he had taken his
departure, I reflected profoundly upon the plans I had somewhat too
hastily determined to adopt;--and another project suggested itself.
For you may believe me when I solemnly avow that all my solicitude was
relative to Agnes. Her present happiness and her future welfare in the
world alone occupied my attention. Thus was it that the thought stole
into my mind, of how unfortunate it was for her to be separated from
the father whom she loved so well, and how prejudicial to her interests
the equivocal position of her mother was likely to become. Then I
resolved to see _you_--to throw myself upon your mercy--to implore
forgiveness for the past--and to beseech you that we might all dwell
once again beneath the same roof! For I reflected that as you had shown
so much forbearance in never appealing to the courts of justice to
divorce me legally--and as you had rather manifested every inclination
to envelope in secrecy the causes of our unfortunate differences,--the
conviction gained upon my mind that you were generous enough to be
capable of still farther sacrifices for the sake of Agnes. Oh! you can
comprehend a mother’s solicitude, my dear husband----”
“Yes--yes: proceed!” exclaimed the Marquis, powerfully affected.
“Well--animated with the hopes inspired by all these considerations,”
resumed the Marchioness, “I passed the night in meditating upon the
best course to adopt in order to procure an interview with you,--an
interview after so long a separation! At length I determined to pen a
brief note, stating that family affairs of the utmost importance to us
both had induced me to take this step; and a letter to that effect did
I accordingly write on the following morning. But when I had completed
this much of my task, another idea struck me,--which was to become the
personal bearer of my own note. I will now candidly admit that I shrank
from undertaking a task which might appear to you to evince a matchless
audacity and presumption; but when I thought of Agnes, I resolved to
risk any mortification or shame which could possibly be inflicted upon
me.”
“Oh! no mortification--no shame!” cried the nobleman. “Would to heaven
that you had only come in time to----to----”
“Hush!” exclaimed the Marchioness, placing her finger upon her lip:
“you promised that you would listen, without exerting yourself to
speak.”
“Proceed, dearest,” said the Marquis, who all this while had one of his
wife’s hands locked in his own.
“Summoning all my courage to my aid,” she resumed, “I resolved on
presenting myself at your abode. I arrived--I sent up the letter by
your valet: but in a few minutes he came rushing down the stairs
with a countenance that had horror depicted in every lineament. I
shall not however dwell upon this portion of my adventure. You may
probably conjecture how dreadful was my alarm--how great my grief,
when I learnt from the broken sentences in which the man spoke, the
frightful intelligence of the condition in which he had found you. Then
I revealed to him who I was; and, recovering my presence of mind, bade
him place a seal on his lips with regard to every one save the doctor,
whom I dispatched him to fetch. In a few moments I was with you: I
stanched the blood--I did all that an unassisted and inexperienced
woman could do in such a case. Sir John Lascelles arrived--and the
information he gave me, after inspecting the wound, was reassuring. I
then resolved to remain with you; and I sent the valet to fetch Agnes.
This is all the explanation that I have to give;--unless indeed I
should add that I communicated with Lord William Trevelyan, who, as a
generous friend and as the intended husband of Agnes----”
“Has he visited this chamber?” asked the old nobleman, hastily.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Considering that he was alike in your
confidence and in mine, I did not think it either grateful or prudent
to leave him unacquainted with all that had occurred. The secret
therefore rests with him, the good physician, the valet, and myself;
and the household generally believes that you were found in a fit,
which has been followed by a dangerous illness.”
“My dearest wife,” said the Marquis, after a long pause, “were there
no circumstances which compelled me, as an honest man, to ask _your_
pardon for the past, in the same way as you have demanded and obtained
my forgiveness,--all that you have now told me would efface from my
memory every thing that it had ever cherished to your prejudice. The
delicacy you have displayed--your generosity--your watchfulness----”
“Nay--I cannot permit you thus to exert yourself,” interrupted the
Marchioness, placing her hand upon his mouth.
“But you _must_ permit me to declare how deep is the gratitude that
I experience for your conduct towards me,” he said. “Oh! my beloved
wife--for so I must again call you--I was mad at the time when I laid
violent hands upon myself!”
“Oh! speak not of _that_!” exclaimed the lady. “My God! was it in
consequence of that last interview which you had with Trevelyan----”
“No--no,” interrupted the Marquis: “do not blame yourself in any way!
It was _not_ on account of the determination which you had expressed,
and which he explained to me, to retain Agnes in your care. No--alas! a
far less worthy cause----But tell me,” he exclaimed, suddenly checking
himself, as an idea struck him: “has there been any communication made
from my bankers----”
“Do not harass yourself with matters of business,” said the
Marchioness, in a tone expressive of the deepest solicitude.
“Nay--if I am to endure the tortures of suspense, I shall never
recover,” exclaimed the nobleman, with strong emphasis. “Besides, I see
by your manner that something _has_ occurred, Sophia----”
“Well--I will explain every thing,” said the Marchioness; “and then
your mind will be relieved: for I see that it is useless to expect you
to compose yourself while any cause of vexation or excitement exists.
Tranquillise your mind, therefore, relative to the matter which is now
uppermost in your thoughts. Your honour has been duly cared for--no
exposure has given existence to shame or humiliation.”
“Oh! again--again I thank you, my generous wife,” cried the Marquis.
“But pray give me an explanation of all this!”
“I will do so without farther preface,” she said. “In the course of the
day following the mournful one whose chief incident made me an inmate
of the house to which I only came in the first instance as a visitor,
the principal partner in the banking firm in the Strand called with
an earnest request to see you immediately. In pursuance of certain
orders which I had given to the servants relative to any visitors who
might come upon business, I was immediately made acquainted with the
banker’s presence; and I hastened to the room where he was waiting.
I assured him that you had been seized with a sudden fit, and were
unable to see any one; and, as I had already made myself known in
the house as your wife, I informed him that I was the Marchioness
of Delmour. He said that it was of the greatest consequence for him
to see you; and I replied that you were insensible to all that was
passing around you. He appeared much annoyed--indeed bewildered by
this announcement; and I conjured him to be candid with me. He then
stated that a forgery had been committed upon the bank, your name
having been already used to procure the sum of sixty thousand pounds;
that the legitimate owner of the cheque had just called to obtain the
cash, and was actually waiting at the bank at that instant; and that
he himself had come to require final instructions from _you_, as the
lady was resolute in enforcing her demand. Pardon me, my husband,”
continued the Marchioness, “if I tell you I suspected that the affair
was one which you would be unwilling to have exposed; and, indeed, on
a little farther conversation with the banker, I heard sufficient to
convince me that such was the fact. I accordingly took it upon myself
to desire him to effect a compromise with the lady in question: but she
being obstinate, he paid the entire amount. This result he subsequently
called to communicate to me; and I hope that you will at least approve
of my motives, if not of the instructions that I gave.”
“I approve of both,” answered the Marquis; “and I again thank you,
Sophia, for the delicacy which you have exhibited in my behalf.”
At this moment a knock at the door of the chamber was heard; and Sir
John Lascelles immediately afterwards made his appearance.
The worthy physician was much delighted at the sudden and unexpected
improvement which had manifested itself in his patient: and, after a
few inquiries of a purely professional nature, he turned towards the
Marchioness, saying, “To her ladyship, my lord, are you indebted for
your life. Her prompt attention and the singular presence of mind
with which she adopted the proper--indeed, the only effectual course,
immediately after the discovery of your alarming condition--saved
your lordship from a speedy death. During the four days and four
nights which have elapsed since the occurrence,” continued Sir John
Lascelles, alluding as delicately as he could to the attempted suicide,
“her ladyship has been constant and unwearied in her attendance at
your bed-side. In order to retain the sad secret within as narrow a
circle as possible, her ladyship would not even permit a nurse to
be engaged;--but, unassisted, she has sustained all the cares--all
the anxieties--and all the fatigues inevitably associated with daily
watchings and long vigils. Pardon me, madam, for speaking thus
enthusiastically; but, throughout my experience, which embraces a
lengthened series of years, I never--never beheld such devotion.”
“I thank you, doctor,” said the nobleman, “for dwelling with
such emphasis upon conduct as noble as it is generous. Certain
differences--trifling in reality, and all in consequence of faults on
_my_ side,” continued the Marquis, “had long kept us apart. But we are
now reunited, never again to separate until Death shall lay his hand
upon me, Doctor,” added the nobleman, after a short pause,--while the
Marchioness was weeping through deep emotion,--“should you ever hear
any one allude to our protracted separation, I beg--I implore you to
declare, upon the authority of my own avowal, that I alone was the
offending party, and that her ladyship has generously forgiven me every
thing.”
“I shall not wait to hear people allude to this matter, ere I myself
broach the subject, in order to volunteer that explanation,” said Sir
John Lascelles, who, firmly believing all that the Marquis had uttered,
naturally considered that the most ample justice should be done towards
a lady who had exhibited such a noble devotion to her husband under
such peculiar circumstances.
When the physician had taken his leave, after prescribing certain
medicines and giving the instructions necessary in the case,
the Marchioness bent over her husband, and with deeply blushing
countenance, said, “If there were anything at all deserving of praise
in my conduct, yours is beyond all commendation: for I have merely
performed a duty--whereas you have proved yourself to be the most
generous of men. Oh! how can I ever sufficiently thank you, my dear
husband, for having thus disarmed scandal of its weapons--thereby
saving my honour even from the faintest breath of suspicion? And in
order to do this, you have taken upon yourself the odium which attaches
itself to the separation of man and wife.”
“I need--I deserve no thanks,” said the Marquis. “You have saved my
life--you have recalled me to existence: to you am I indebted for
that leisure which, by God’s mercy, may yet be afforded me wherein to
repent of the heinous crime I have committed in laying violent hands
upon myself. Sir John Lascelles goes much into society--he is intimate
in all the first houses at the West End: and he will be careful to
propagate the intelligence which I gave him. You may therefore hold up
your head proudly, Sophia: for _your_ secret is also retained within as
narrow a circle as my own. And now as you have eased my mind on so many
points, let me relieve you from any shadow of uncertainty that may hang
over yours, in respect to the cause of this dreadful deed, the fatal
results of which were averted only by your timely aid. It was through
disappointment in respect to that very lady who presented herself at my
bankers’----”
“Enough!” exclaimed the Marchioness: “we have already had too many
painful revelations this day,” she added, in a low and affectionate
tone. “If you are now strong enough to see her, I will fetch Agnes to
remain with us for a few minutes.”
The Marquis joyfully assented; and Sophia, having arranged the collar
of his linen in such a manner that the bandage on the throat could not
be observed, quitted the room. She however almost immediately returned,
followed by her daughter, who was overwhelmed with delight to find him
whom she believed to be her father so much improved.
But when the Marchioness contemplated the heart-felt joy with which her
husband welcomed Agnes to his arms, she was stricken with remorse at
the deceit she was practising upon him,--permitting him to regard that
beauteous girl as his own offspring! Could she, however, destroy an
illusion which gave him so much delight, and was the source of so much
happiness?--will our readers blame her for cherishing this secret in
her own breast, instead of uselessly destroying the fabric of domestic
peace which had once more been built up in that lordly mansion?
After this interview with Agnes, the Marquis shortly fell into a deep
and refreshing slumber, which continued until the evening.
On the following morning he was so much farther improved, that when
Trevelyan called, he insisted upon seeing that good young nobleman,
who was delighted beyond measure to find that such a signal change had
taken place in his condition.
CHAPTER CC.
JACK RILY AND THE LAWYER’S CLERK.
It was about nine in the evening, and Mr. John Rily, _alias_ the
Doctor, was seated in his chamber at the house in Roupel Street,
smoking his pipe and pondering upon the best mode of disposing of the
Bank-notes that were in his possession.
He had seen by the newspapers that his late companion, Mrs. Mortimer,
had died from the effects of the terrible punishment inflicted upon her
by Vitriol Bob: but he had not observed any advertisement proclaiming
the notes that had been derived from the forgery;--and the journals
were likewise silent respecting the forgery itself.
The Doctor accordingly concluded that the fraud remained undetected,
and that the legitimate cheque had not been presented; and as several
days had now elapsed since the notes had found their way into his
possession, he began seriously to meditate how he could convert them
into gold.
It may seem a singular thing to some that a man having in his
possession sixty thousand pounds’ _worth_, was at a loss for the means
to realise the amount: but such is often the predicament in which
thieves are placed.
For thus stood the matter in respect to Jack Rily:--If he were to
take a quantity of the notes to the Bank of England, his appearance
might be so much against him as to excite suspicion: for he was not
endowed with vanity sufficient to blind his eyes to the fact that his
outward aspect was of the most villanously hang-dog description it was
possible to conceive. Besides, he was not certain that the notes might
not have been privately stopped. Again, if he applied to the “fences”
and receivers of stolen property with whom he was acquainted, he knew
that they could not cash more than two or three thousand pounds’
worth of the notes; and in doing even this much, they might mulct him
of one-half the value. Besides, they were only to be trusted by men
in such desperate circumstances as to leave no other alternative:
whereas the Doctor had plenty of gold remaining from his share of
the plunder derived from the adventure in the Haunted Houses. Lastly
in the catalogue of difficulties now enumerated, Jack Rily had heard
from a friend so much of the galleys in France, that he did not at all
relish the idea of repairing to that country and standing the chance
of visiting those places by attempting to pass notes concerning which
private information might have been sent, for any thing he knew to the
contrary, to the various money-changers.
All these considerations were occupying the Doctor’s thoughts on the
evening alluded to; when his landlord entered to acquaint him that a
gentleman named Green desired to speak to him.
“Ah! my old school-pal!” ejaculated Rily, joyfully: “show him up by all
means!”
And during the short interval which elapsed ere the attorney’s clerk
made his appearance, the Doctor placed the brandy-bottle, a couple of
tumblers, and a clean pipe upon the table.
By the time these preparations were completed, Mr. Green entered
the room, and was received with the familiarity of a long-standing
acquaintance.
“Well, it is quite an age since I saw you last!” exclaimed the Doctor,
as soon as his visitor was seated. “What have you been doing with
yourself? Still drudging on at old Heathcote’s?”
“Just the same--or rather worse,” was the reply.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” observed the Doctor. “Come, help yourself.
But how came you to find me out in my new quarters?”
“I was passing by here yesterday to serve a writ upon a poor devil in
this street,” answered Mr. Green, “and I twigged you at the window. You
didn’t see me: but I made up my mind to give you a call--and so here I
am.”
“And I feel devilish glad to see you,” responded Jack Rily. “You may
observe that my circumstances have improved a trifle or so, of late.”
“Ah! I wish to heaven that _mine_ would show any proof of amendment,”
said Green, with a profound sigh, as he helped himself to a tumbler of
brandy-and-water. “I made a couple of hundred pounds the other day--it
was an affair of giving information about a lunatic-asylum in which
Heathcote had locked up his own brother;--and because I treated myself
to this new suit of clothes,” he added, glancing down at his dress,
“the old villain declared that I must have robbed him to procure the
money. Oh! how I long to be revenged on that man!”
“Well, I don’t suppose it’s so very difficult,” observed Rily: “at
least I should think, from all you have told me at different times,
that you know enough about him to make him quake in his shoes.”
“Yes--yes--but--then,” stammered the clerk, with the hesitation of one
who longs to open his heart to another, yet shrinks from the avowal of
a villany even to the ears of a villain.
“But what?” demanded the Doctor, relighting his pipe. “If you’ve come
to consult me, then out with everything at once. Do nothing by halves,
old fellow--I never do.”
“Well, you see--the truth is--that--I--I am in the man’s
power--completely in his power,” responded Green: “and now he’s making
my life so wretched--oh! so wretched, that I think of running away
to America with my two hundred pounds. But then I know that he would
move heaven and earth to find me out; he would advertise me--give a
description of my person--swear that I had robbed him, or something
of that kind;--anything, indeed, would he do to revenge himself
upon me. He is one of those despicable characters that cherish the
bitterest--the most fiend-like malignity.”
“And what is he doing to you now?” demanded Jack, smoking his pipe at
his ease while his friend was thus pouring forth his complaints.
“What doesn’t he do, you should rather ask me,” exclaimed Green, in
a tone of mingled rage, hate, and despair. “As I just now told you,
he put his brother Sir Gilbert into a lunatic asylum, in the hope
of getting into his own hands the management of all the baronet’s
property--and doubtless in the expectation likewise that grief would
send the unfortunate gentleman to his last home. Well, Sir Gilbert
escaped----”
“Through your connivance, eh?” interrupted the Doctor, with a knowing
chuckle.
“Yes--with my connivance,” responded Green; “and it is the suspicion of
this fact that makes Heathcote so intolerable in his conduct towards
me. Besides, seeing me with a new suit of clothes, he swore that if I
had not robbed him I must have been bribed to give information relative
to the place where his brother was confined. It was all in vain that I
reminded him of my salary being quite sufficient to keep me in decent
attire----”
“Why, don’t you see,” again interrupted the Doctor,--“when once a man
has got a certain suspicion into his head, he won’t very easily part
with it. He cherishes it--feeds upon it--sleeps upon it--dreams of it,
just as a young girl does of her first love.”
“I suppose that this must be the case,” said Green. “At all events, I
have been made so miserable by Heathcote for the last few days, that
it was like a ray of hope when I saw you at the window of this room
yesterday; and I determined to come and chat with you over the matter.”
“And yet I don’t see very well how I can assist you, since you declare
that you are completely in Heathcote’s power,” observed Jack Rily. “But
you must tell me every thing.”
“Well--there’s no use in denying, then, that Heathcote can transport
me if he chooses,” said Green. “Some years ago I--I--committed--a--a
forgery----”
“Oh! that’s nothing,” exclaimed Jack, assuming a consolatory tone. “But
go on.”
“Nothing do you call it!” cried the clerk, looking apprehensively
around him, as if he were fearful that the very walls had ears. “In
a month’s time a thousand pounds must be forthcoming--or I shall be
transported. Up to this time Heathcote has all along given me to
understand that he will replace the money for me: but this business
of his brother’s escape and two or three other matters that have gone
wrong with him lately----”
“I understand you,” said Jack Rily: “they have put the kyebosh upon it.”
“The what?” demanded Green, unskilled in slang phrases.
“Put a stopper on the affair, I mean,” explained the Doctor, whom an
idea had struck while his companion was talking; and this idea was
that Mr. Green might be made instrumental in procuring cash for a
considerable portion of the Bank-notes.
“I am indeed afraid that Heathcote will not assist me,” pursued the
wretched clerk; “and if he does not, I cannot say what will become of
me. In fact there is no use in buoying myself up with the hope that
Heathcote _will_ do any thing for me: he himself has lost money lately
in several ways--and moreover his temper is terribly soured by this
affair about his brother.”
“Is Sir Gilbert taking steps to punish him, then?” asked Jack.
“Oh! no--he is too generous and too forgiving in his disposition,”
replied Green: “but he has compelled the two surgeons who signed the
certificate of insanity, to give him a counter-declaration--and indeed
a confession to the effect that they were bribed to sign the document
on the strength of which he was placed in the mad-house. There is
consequently the danger of all this becoming known; and Heathcote,
finding his reputation to be hanging by a thread, has grown as it were
desperate,--not caring what may happen to himself--still less what may
befall _me_.”
“I should think, then, that if you had a thousand pounds, you would
fancy yourself a very lucky fellow, and be able to defy Heathcote
altogether,” observed Jack Rily.
“I would give the last ten years of my life to reach such happiness,”
said the clerk. “But it is useless--vain to hope--”
“Will you give a few hours of your time and a little of your
ingenuity?” demanded the Doctor, now fixing upon him a look full of
deep and mysterious meaning.
“Do not banter me--do not make a jest of my misfortune,” exclaimed
Green.
“By Satan! I never was more serious in my life,” returned the Doctor.
“Nay--you may stare at me as you will: but the thousand pounds are
nearer within your reach than you fancy--and you might still keep your
two hundred pounds for your own purposes.”
“Pray explain yourself!” cried the clerk, not daring to yield to the
hope which suddenly appeared to rise up before him. “Keep me not in
suspense, I conjure you! Can you do anything for me?--can you put me
into the way----”
“Yes--I can,” answered the Doctor, emphatically. “And now you may as
well tell me candidly that you thought I _might_ be able to assist you,
when you resolved upon calling here. Because, since we were at school
together--which is many long years ago--our paths in life have been so
different, that it is not very likely you would have honoured me by
your company without some pressing motive.”
“You must at the same time admit that whenever I have met you, I have
always spoken civilly to you--and sometimes stood treat,” added Green,
diffidently.
“Once or twice,” observed Jack. “But that don’t matter one way or
the other. I asked you a question: and before I open my mind any
farther----”
“Well--I candidly admit, then,” interrupted Green, wishing to bring the
matter to the point as speedily as possible--“I candidly admit that I
_did_ hope you could help me in some way or another. But it was only
the hope of a desperate man: for as to the idea that you could assist
me to eight hundred or a thousand pounds, it would have been insane to
harbour it even for an instant. To speak more frankly still, I almost
thought of asking you to let me join you in your own way of life,
although I hardly know what your pursuits positively are.”
“They require courage and firmness, at all events,” answered Jack Rily,
with a coarse laugh; “whereas you have got into such cursed cringing,
bowing, and scraping ways, that you are only fit for a toad-eater.
Excuse me for speaking frankly--but as we are talking on matters of
business----”
“Quite correct,” interrupted Green, swallowing his resentment: for he
felt but little pleased at the home-truth which had just been told him.
“And now for the information which is to relieve me from such cruel
suspense.”
“First answer me one or two questions,” said the Doctor. “I suppose you
are often in the habit of changing Bank-notes for your master?”
“Yes: but not to any considerable amount at a time,” answered Green:
“he is too suspicious to trust me with a sum sufficiently large to
tempt me to run away with it.”
“Nevertheless, I suppose you could manage to change a few heavy notes,
if you had them?” pursued the Doctor.
“Heavy notes?” repeated Green, turning pale and trembling. “Are
they--fo--or--ged?”
“Not they!” exclaimed Rily, half disgusted with his timorous companion.
“They are genuine Bank of England flimsies: but as they didn’t come
into my hands in a very regular manner, and as my appearance isn’t
altogether in my favour, I can’t pass them myself.”
“Oh! I--I--can get cash for them,” said Green, with all the eagerness
of a man in a desperate predicament. “Heathcote’s bankers would do me
as many as you can possibly have.”
“I question it,” observed the Doctor, drily. “Would they cash you two
notes for a thousand each?”